


In the Silence of a Safe Place

by constantblur



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Lance can stop time, M/M, and frequently does so on accident because he's an anxious little nugget
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7835233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constantblur/pseuds/constantblur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it all gets to be too much, Lance stops time. Keith stays with him until Lance feels ready to start the world again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Silence of a Safe Place

**Author's Note:**

> This ship THIS SHIP I knew I was doomed as soon as Lance said “I’D RECOGNIZE THAT MULLET ANYWHERE” but somehow I still wasn’t expecting to ship it _this_ hard.

He’s been listlessly staring out the window for probably far too long now, tapping his pencil against the textbook as he contemplates a reasonable answer for the equation _time spent on homework_ plus _questions answered_ plus _stress accumulated_ equals _when can I take a break_. The idle thoughts are distraction enough to delay Keith from realizing what it is he’s actually seeing outside the apartment.

There’s a girl on the sidewalk posed gracelessly, expression stuck in what seems to be an _oh shit I fucked up_ kind of way as she stares in horror at a cell phone that is inches away from striking the pavement. A pigeon seems to be floating in midair right outside Keith’s window, and due to the other thing frozen just inches below the bird, Keith hopes no one’s standing further below in the line of fire. Squirrels aren’t darting around the trees. People are stalled midstride. None of the cars on the street are moving.

Keith drops his pencil and whisks out the door.

He pulls up short just inside the living room. Lance is sitting cross-legged on the coffee table, as still as the people frozen on the sidewalk just outside, staring at the clock. It’s a giant analog one, the first thing they bought for this apartment before they even looked at couches or television sets. The minute and hour hands proclaim that it’s 9:59 in the morning. The second hand is still.

Keith abruptly understands what this is about. “Lance . . . “

“I wasn’t ready yet,” Lance says. “I’m sorry, okay, I didn’t really mean to—but I just needed a little more time.”

Keith steps forward, drops a hand to Lance’s shoulder. “Come on. You haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“How would you know,” Lance says sulkily, but he stands up and follows Keith into the kitchen. “You’ve been holed up in your office all morning.”

“Well _someone_ distracted me away from my homework last night,” Keith retorts. He immediately feels guilty for snapping at a time like this, but Lance has a lazy, self-satisfied smirk on his face that softens Keith’s edges. He brushes a hand over Lance’s hair. “You could’ve come to get me, you know. You didn’t have to sit there alone.”

Lance mutters something indecipherable under his breath and scuttles across the kitchen to hop onto the counter. “Can you make waffles?” he asks, puppy dog eyes included.

Keith sighs in defeat. “Sure.”

“With chocolate chips?”

“Okay.”

“And whipped cream smiles?”

“I’m living with a six-year-old,” Keith deadpans. But when he opens the fridge to procure all the ingredients, he grabs the whipped cream too.

They’re both silent for a while as Keith cracks eggs and measures out the vegetable oil, solicitously not complaining about the fact that Lance is taking up much-needed counter space. Then there’s a dull thunk, and Keith glances up to see Lance leaning back with his head against the cabinets, staring up at the ceiling. “Hey,” Lance says softly, “do you think she might die?”

Keith drops the whisk immediately, putting his hands on Lance’s knees and gripping hard enough to make Lance look at him. “No,” he says. “And you shouldn’t think that either.”

“But she could, right?” Lance swallows. “They make it look cool on TV, and they make it sound so simple at the consultation, but it’s—it’s _real_ , you know, it’s serious. It’s her _heart_. They’re—they’re gonna cut her open and be poking around in there, and there’s, like, eight hundred million things that could go wrong with that situation. What if she’s in that seven percent that die on the table? Or—or what if they only think the surgery went well, and she gets sent home and the tube leaks or—I don’t know, that surgeon listed a lot of things that could go wrong with aortic valve replacements, you could just spin the fucking wheel and she could—“ Lance’s voice breaks and he coughs bashfully, looking away.

Keith wraps his arms around Lance’s waist, pulling him to the edge of the counter to hold him closer. “Your mom is way too tough,” he says firmly. “There’s no way she’s going before she decides to. And she’s got the best cardiothoracic surgeon on the planet taking care of her—you said it yourself, no doctor calling himself the best would take on a case that could harm his record. He knows your mom is gonna pull through and keep his hundred percent success rate nice and shiny.”

Lance droops lifelessly against Keith for several moments before he wraps his arms around Keith’s shoulders, holding tight. Keith splays a hand on Lance’s back, imagining all his energy, every drop of calm and courage and strength he can muster, all of it going to Lance. Silly, perhaps, and futile, definitely, but he would if he could. He hopes it’s enough to just stay like this for as long as Lance wants. They could steal hours like this; after all, it’s not like those hours are going anywhere.

And then, the moment gets ruined by an almighty rumble from Lance’s stomach.

Keith can’t help it—it starts with a small snort, turns into some hacking coughs, but the laughter he tries to hold back bursts out of him when Lance utters a single awkward, “Um.”

“Right, waffles, I’m on it,” Keith says, still snickering.

Lance clamps a hand on Keith’s shoulder when he starts to turn away, tugging him back into place. He leans in, presses a kiss to Keith’s lips, lingers there for several heartbeats. “Thanks,” he whispers.

 

 

After breakfast (i.e. after Keith takes the can of whipped cream away from Lance because he kept pouring too much of it directly into his mouth), Lance wheedles Keith into taking a stroll around the quiet city streets. He teases about all the ways they can toy with the people frozen on the sidewalk, but Keith knows Lance will wind up being more of a helping hand and less of the gremlin he pretends to be.

Out on the sidewalk, Keith picks up the cell phone and places it securely in the girl's grip. Lance drags a cyclist a little closer to the sidewalk and away from the side view mirror he'd been dangerously close to. And then he trots over to a man in a pin-striped suit, briefcase in hand and hair oiled and neatly parted, and ludicrously twirls the man’s already ludicrous mustache.

Keith glances up at the pigeon and sees a man crouched in an unfortunate spot as he fixes his shoe. He really should move him . . . but the man is quite _large_ , and while Keith isn't exactly wet noodles, trying to move hundreds of pounds of what looks like pure muscle is not likely to end well for either of them. Keith offers the man an apologetic shrug and moves on. _You can’t save everyone_.

Lance comes up to Keith then with a large pretzel he must have snagged from the food truck, smiling as he pops a bite of it into Keith’s mouth—which Keith only accepts because he spotted the gleam of stacked coins at the vendor’s window. Keith puts an arm around Lance’s shoulders and leads him down the street to take in the sights. They point out some amusing faces and awkward poses, occasionally stopping to adjust something here or there for safety or because they can make it _so much funnier_. Lance takes a squirrel that was scurrying up a tree and puts it on a man's leg, but at Keith's severe frown, he sighs and puts the squirrel on the side of a trash can instead.

When they finish the pretzel, they hold hands and silently make their way back to their apartment building. Inside, they sit on the couch together, staring up at the giant clock that still reads 9:59. Lance pulls his feet up and leans against Keith, fingers still laced through Keith’s like he’s gripping a lifeline. Keith once again imagines his energy flowing out, streaming from his hand to Lance's, running up Lance's arm, going straight into his heart until he feels strong enough to handle anything. They stay quietly cuddled up like that for a long while, gazes absently locked on the unmoving clock while they fill the silence with nothing but inhales and exhales, until finally Lance says, "I'm ready."

Keith rubs his thumb against Lance’s palm. "If you're sure."

Lance laughs a little pessimistically. "I'm not. But if I wait until then, that clock will never move again." He nuzzles his nose against Keith's cheek. "Not that that would be so bad."

Keith lightly pushes Lance's face away. “Not a chance, babe,” he says, but there’s laughter in his eyes and a teasing twist to his lips.

With their hands clasped together, Lance closes his eyes and breathes out a long, slow breath. And the clock goes _tick_.

 

 

When they were 15 years old, Lance made the grandiose observation that he had superpowers, which lead to the stunning conclusion that he was clearly a superhero with a noble destiny. Obviously he no longer had time to play Keith's stupid games—a statement Keith vehemently objected to—but must instead focus on using his powers for good. He vowed to use his abilities only to help others, not for selfish personal reasons—which made Keith snort—and determinedly committed himself to being a discreet, watchful vigilante for the city, stopping time and stepping in whenever he saw an accident about to happen. Lance stayed true to his vow for what Keith thought of as a surprising amount of time.

His eventual downfall was something completely out of his control: Simply being a human 15-year-old.

It was simply too much for any one person to endure, and Lance was just so young. The strain of bearing the burden of watching out for everyone but himself took its toll; the breaking point came when he saw someone die right before his eyes.

Lance was walking his usual route to school when he heard screeching tires behind him. He turned quickly towards the sound—and became paralyzed as he watched the scene unfold before him. 

In the moment, it seemed instantaneous. A blur of a car skidding, possibly a loss of control after trying to dodge a rabbit, or maybe the driver just fell asleep at the wheel. And then the crash. And the unmistakable red smear on the driver’s side door.

In the minute after, Lance played through the scene again in his head, frame by frame, thinking, _I should have stepped in there, or there, or there_.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly everything stopped.

Lance turned to see the momentary astonishment on Keith’s face as his eyes flickered between all the frozen people on the street before his gaze finally met Lance’s. “Whoa,” Keith said. Lance had been trying to work out how to keep Keith in the “null zone bubble,” as he’d dubbed his ability to move while all the rest of the world stood still—and this was the first time he’d succeeded. But Keith quickly understood it wasn’t the moment to celebrate. He glanced at the car and back at Lance, expression solemn: “What happened?”

And Lance abruptly burst into tears.

Keith’s arms hesitantly wrapped around his shoulders, and Lance knew he’d feel embarrassed later but right then he was grateful for that soft patch of sweater to cry into. He sometimes felt Keith patting his back, but otherwise, Keith remained still and silent, just letting Lance use him as a human tissue and cry himself out.

After several minutes, Lance pulled back, ears red as he quickly scrubbed at his eyes and nose with his sleeve. “S-sorry,” he muttered, staring down at the pavement.

“You’re upset you didn’t stop it, right?” Keith said quietly.

Lance’s hands compulsively closed into fists. “I should’ve,” he said. “I’m—I’m a superhero, Keith.” His face colored more, and a small nervous sound bubbled out of his throat. “I should save people. But I just—I just _stood_ there.”

Keith stepped up beside Lance, slinging an arm over Lance’s shoulders. "Superheroes are fiction," Keith said. "You're real. And you're just a boy, Lance. It's not up to you to save everyone."

It pained Lance to admit it, on several different levels, but Keith was making sense. The dream of saving the world, having his photo in the paper, going down in the history books—it was simply too big for him. He was just one teen boy living in the suburbs. He still had a _curfew_.

So Lance shelved his superhero fantasy along with his dreams of being an astronaut, inventing a pizza that you could never run out of, and being the world's first half-boy, half-kangaroo (he was jealous of how strong a kangaroo’s legs were, and thought it’d be a treat to be able to kick Keith across the room). Lance went back to playing street hockey with his friends, doing his homework, and just being a boy.

But when he saw someone about to trip and drop their coffee, or walk into a lamp post, or lose their grip on the leash as their dog tried to run into the middle of traffic, Lance couldn’t help but intervene. He might not have been a superhero, but—as Keith idly noted—Lance was still pretty superb.

 

 

Lance clutches Keith’s arm, eyes wide and looking disconcertingly pale.

Keith sighs, eyes rolling briefly heavenward. “Calm down, or you’re going to Make Things Happen.”

“I don’t like hospitals,” Lance hisses. But he relaxes his grip on Keith’s arm. “Okay, okay, I know. Don’t want to Make Things Happen right now. Sorry, I’m nervous, okay?”

“I know,” Keith says, patting Lance’s shoulder. In an undertone that seems deliberately loud enough for Lance to hear, though, he adds, “Who decided to let an over-reactive bonehead have the ability to Make Things Happen anyway.”

“You are the worst,” Lance mutters, and quickens his pace down the hall, dragging Keith along with him.

They come to a stop in front of room 471. Keith looks at Lance, waiting. When Lance seems a little too still—a little too lost in thought, a little too hesitant—Keith slips his hand into Lance’s, silently offering his strength.

Lance takes a small, shuddering breath. “Let’s do this.” And he pushes open the door.

“LANCE.” Two small bodies collide with his legs, arms wrapping around them tightly and almost making Lance topple over.

“Hey, what did I tell you two?” a woman chastises, hurrying forward. “Indoor voices, _please_.” She smiles at Lance in a weary yet fondly resigned sort of way. “Hello, Lance. Sorry about the imps.”

Lance smiles back. “It’s okay, Aunt Soph.” And he clamps his hands under the arms of the smallest imp, lightly tosses her into the air and catches her, wrapping his arms around her while she laughs gleefully. “Look, Keith, I found a Penny,” Lance says.

“You tell that joke _every time_ ,” groans the other imp.

“And it’s funny every time,” Lance counters.

Keith pats the boy’s hair when he makes a face at Lance. “It’s okay, Oliver,” he says, “I don’t think he’s funny either.”

Eventually, Aunt Sophia—commonly called Soph because of Lance’s supreme reluctance to utter more syllables than necessary—disentangles Oliver and Penelope—Penny, who suffers like her mother—from Lance and Keith and leads them from the hospital room. Keith starts making the rounds to offer his helloes to the various other family members crammed into the room while Lance shuffles straight towards the hospital bed. “Hi, Mom,” he says quietly.

His mom smiles. “Oh, dear,” she says with a faint edge of teasing, “I must look terrible to merit that tone of voice.”

“You don’t look terrible!” Lance hastily says. “You look beautiful! Radiant! A goddess even under this atrocious fluorescent lighting!”

“Calm down, Lance,” his mom says, reaching out to take his hand. Lance grips it as tightly as he dares and perches on the edge of the bed. “How crazy did you drive poor Keith until today?”

“That is completely unfair,” Lance protests. “Taking shots on me when you know I won’t shoot back. That’s just _mean_.”

His mom chuckles lightly. “Sorry, honey. But how else am I supposed to convince you I’m fine?” Lance bites his lip and looks at her from the corner of his eye; she catches the look and smiles softly. “I really am, Lance, I promise. Everything went well, just like your father told you. I’m being released in a couple days, and—“

“And then I’ll have to follow her around the house and yell at her to sit her damn ass down for five minutes before she overdoes it,” Lance’s father interrupts. He claps a hand on Lance’s shoulder, his way of saying hello, before moving to the head of the bed.

“Really, Roman,” his mother sighs.

“What? You know it’s true,” Roman says. He cups a hand over her head, leaning down to press a kiss to her hair.

Lance needs air.

“Gotta pee,” he says before he stands and bolts from the room.

All right, not his most graceful exit ever.

Lance mentally kicks himself as he shoves his hands in his pockets and strides down the hallway, trying to remember where the elevator is so he can get outside and breathe air untainted by industrial cleaners.

A hand grips his elbow and pulls him down a hallway he was about to walk past. “This way.”

“Why’d you follow me?” Lance grumbles.

“Because I knew you were going to get lost,” Keith says.

It’s a poor attempt at a joke, but Lance lets it slide and follows Keith out of the winding maze of identical hospitals hallways.

Outside, Lance throws himself down on the grass, stretching himself out on his back as he sucks in a deep lungful of freshly-mowed-lawn-scented air. Keith sits beside him, leaning back on his hands and staring off towards the highway. Lance appreciates that he isn’t being interrogated yet, but he knows it’s coming eventually. He’s a little tempted to freeze time, keep Keith and everyone else from bothering him just yet about something so stupid. But that would be even more stupid, so he opens his mouth and blurts it out before he can change his mind: “Everyone just seems so _normal_.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Keith says.

“Yes! No? I don’t know! I don’t know what I was expecting,” Lance says. “But—they cut her open! They cracked her chest and stopped her heart and—“ He stops himself, chewing over his thoughts as he chews on his lip. “Of course it’s good that she’s okay and acting normal,” he says. “I guess I just . . . “

“Just got yourself so worked up over the thought of seeing your mom laying in a hospital bed like a corpse that now you feel like you’re going to throw up in relief?” Keith deadpans.

Lance goes very still for a moment, and then he’s pointing a finger at Keith and glaring. “I _hate it_ when you do that.”

“Figuring out what’s going on in your head isn’t exactly a challenge,” Keith says dryly.

Lance grumbles and shifts, plopping his head on Keith’s lap. “Could you maybe stop making fun of me for two minutes? Thanks.”

“Two minutes,” Keith says, and looks at his watch. “Starting . . . now.”

Lance snorts, but closes his eyes and sinks into Keith’s thigh. Keith smiles down at him for a moment before looking back at the cars streaking past.

It’s a little more than two minutes before Keith signals Lance with a gentle comb of his fingers through his hair. They stand up without a word, and walk back through the automatic doors of the hospital together.

 

 

Lance and Keith met when they were 13 years old, both feisty and headstrong and rough around the edges. Lance introduced himself by punching Keith in the face; by the time the teachers reached them, Keith's arms were locked around Lance's neck in a stranglehold. They both served detention together after school, where they grew bored of ignoring each other’s existences after ten minutes and grudgingly struck up a conversation. Ten minutes after that, their desks were pushed together as they excitedly sketched out the model airplanes they were working on; by the time they were released from detention, each of them had a new friend.

It became increasingly rare for them to be out of the other’s presence. They played basketball on Lance’s driveway, and walked into town for ice cream, and drove their parents a little nuts with how frequently they’d drag out the tent and have a sleepover in Keith’s backyard with his little telescope always pointing in a new direction. They went over to each other's houses after school assuring their parents they were going to do homework, but instead they worked on new model airplane designs, or played video games, or just laid on the floor and talked for hours about everything from _What d’you think was the first word ever spoken?_ to _That burp tasted like tacos but I haven’t had tacos in like a week_.

It felt like no time at all before they’d become best friends, and it felt like they’d been that way forever.

And so Lance decided to tell Keith something he’d never told anyone before.

“Wanna know a secret?” was how the conversation started, with wide-eyes and a somewhat uncharacteristic solemnity.

“Yeah,” Keith said.

Lance took his hand and dragged him across the playground, away from the monkey bars and the game of kickball and the teachers watching over their flock. When they were far enough to be in view of the teachers but out of earshot, Lance dramatically glanced in both directions, leaned in close, and whispered from behind his hand, “I can freeze time.”

Keith grinned. “Yeah, and I can read minds.”

Lance brightened. “Really?”

“Uh huh,” said Keith, nodding sagely. “Right now you’re thinking _I’m so jealous, reading minds is so much cooler than freezing time_.”

Lance looked deeply insulted. He crossed his arms and pouted. “I was _not_. You can’t really read minds.”

“So?” Keith shrugged. “You can’t really freeze time.”

“Yes I can,” Lance insisted. “I’ll prove it to you.”

The statement was met with what Lance felt was a wholly unnecessary amount of laughter. “Yeah, sure you wi—“ Keith choked on a gasp, alarmed because the spot where Lance had been standing just a moment ago was suddenly empty.

“Yo,” Lance said, and Keith nearly snapped his neck as he turned to look in the opposite direction. Lance was lounging against the brick wall of the school building, grinning. “See? I stopped time, then walked over here while you were frozen with your stupid mouth hanging open—really, you look like an idiot when you laugh.”

Keith gaped for several moments before shaking his head and settling his expression into surly skepticism. “Whatever, come on, we’ve got cla— _ahh!_ ”

“Oh,” Lance snickered as Keith crumpled into a heap on the ground; he pointed at the shoelaces knotted together between Keith’s feet, “I did that too.”

The next day at school, Lance once again tugged Keith to a quiet spot during recess, looking a little troubled.

"I told my parents last night," he said.

Keith's eyebrows rose up in surprise. "They didn't already know?"

"No," Lance admitted. "It kind of never really occurred to me to tell them, actually? I don't know. It was just something I did or something that happened sometimes, and I guess it felt like, well, of course they already know, just like they know I have brown hair and steal the Doritos. You were the first person I told, and I realized I hadn't actually talked to them about it and they probably didn't already know. So I told them, and showed them, and," Lance's voice lowered, "they seemed really weirded out. Like _really_ weirded out. They told me not to tell anyone else, ever." He grinned a little awkwardly. "I didn't tell them that you already know. It just didn't seem like a good idea." Lance suddenly looked a little scared. "You won't tell anyone, right?"

"Of course not," Keith said. "Never."

"Okay," Lance said, a sigh of relief escaping with the words. "Our little secret then."

"Yeah," Keith said, and they smiled at each other, all mischief and camaraderie.

 

 

Keith is pulled out of his doze on the couch by the slamming of the front door. It takes a few seconds for his brain to get back up to speed, but then he’s on his feet, looking for Lance.

Keith turns the corner into the kitchen and there he is, drinking Captain Morgan right out of the bottle. “Lance? You okay?” Keith rubs his eyes, still blurry from sleep. “What time is it?”

Lance plunks the rum on the counter. “Almost three in the morning. I am _so_ fucked. I’m gonna kill Hunk, I fucking _swear_ —“ He picks up the bottle again and gulps deeply.

Keith intervenes then, taking the bottle and putting it back in the cabinet. “Your thesis?” he says quietly.

“There’s no way I can finish it in just four hours,” Lance says, and Keith almost winces at the way he’s pulling at his own hair. “I would’ve been able to finish it tonight, I swear, I had a plan and it might’ve been cutting it close but I _could_ have done it, but Hunk didn’t show up—probably fell asleep in the robotics lab again, I’m gonna _kill him_ —and Professor Freling, _fuck_ Professor Freling and his stupid, imperious _You made a commitment, Mr. McClain_ —it’s an unpaid internship, you stupid prick, and I’ve got other commitments and other classes and I don’t have _time_ to do double shifts when I’ve got a goddamn thesis to finish by seven—where’d you put the rum, goddammit, Keith—“

Keith takes the hand Lance reaches out towards the cabinet and drags him out of the kitchen, pulling him along to the living room and tugging Lance down beside him onto the couch. In normal circumstances, Keith would probably let Lance get blindingly drunk while snarking at him all the while about how he’s had _months_ to work on his thesis and complete it long before the deadline. But it isn’t normal circumstances. Lance’s mother had first gone to the doctor with complaints of chest pain and shortness of breath a few months ago, and Lance being Lance had already fallen off the deep end with that news. Once she’d been officially diagnosed with aortic valve stenosis and the word “surgery” was first floated, it was a minor miracle that Lance was able to function at all. Keith had known Lance was flaking on some assignments and wasn’t studying as much as he should, but Lance’s grades stayed steady enough that Keith had let it slide. He’d just wished the professors could be as lenient, but that’s of course a foolish wish when you’re being taught by Emotionally Barren Humanoid Dicks ™.

Lost in thought, it takes Keith a moment to notice a certain absence in the room. He and Lance look at each other in unison.

“Oops,” Lance says meekly.

The second hand of their clock isn’t ticking. Keith isn’t sure how long it’s been 2:56 AM, but he figures it’s safe to assume “since Lance opened the rum.”

“Oh my god,” Lance says, the last word muffled as he buries his head in his hands. “It’s happening again, I keep losing control, why does this keep _happening_ —“

Keith presses himself to Lance’s side, running his hand soothingly down Lance’s spine. “Just breathe, Lance. You’re not doing anything bad. You’re not hurting anyone. It’s all right.”

“It’s fucking weird,” Lance says. “No one else spontaneously freezes time when they’re stressed out.”

“That we know of,” Keith says with a touch of dramatic speculation, and is rewarded with a tiny snort of laughter from Lance. “Okay, so maybe other people just listen to music or take a bath when they’re stressed out. But some people do worse. You stopping time? Not so bad.”

“This is like a seriously messed up panic attack,” Lance mutters, leaning against Keith. “Other people hyperventilate. I make the whole world shut down.”

“Maybe it’s not the whole world,” Keith muses. “Maybe we should take a road trip out east right now, see how far-reaching your panic attack is.”

Lance is quiet for a moment, considering. “You’re being a dick about it,” he says, “but it’s an interesting theory.”

“Sorry,” Keith says. “But think about it this way: you have this power to give yourself time when you really need it, and you really need it right now for that thesis. It’s not hurting anyone, so you might as well use it, right? And appreciate it when it gives you time you won’t take for yourself.”

“Thought you said using my power for school was cheating,” Lance says.

“It is, so don’t go getting any ideas that I’ve changed my mind about that,” Keith says, “but this is a special circumstance. And, hey, it’s kind of like you’re giving everyone on the planet a momentary break too, even if they don’t realize it.”

Lance inhales deeply and exhales slowly. “Okay,” he says. “I guess I should get to work, then.”

“No rush, right?” Keith says, frowning slightly. “Give yourself a few minutes. I’ll make tea?”

Lance slumps back on the couch. “Tea sounds good.”

Keith makes them each a mug of green tea and carries them out to the living room along with a granola bar for Lance. Lance takes the snack with a smile, ripping into it immediately. When he sits up and slides forward to reach for his tea, Keith slips behind him, curling an arm around Lance’s stomach. Lance relaxes back against him, hands cupped around his tea, and Keith just can’t find it in himself to care if this isn’t fair or if it’s some awful cosmic cheat: he’s grateful for every moment they can steal like this without having to think about the million other things they should be doing. He’s grateful that this power exists to give Lance a quiet way to cope.

They stay like that until the mugs are empty and cold. And then they get to work.

(Well, Lance gets to work. Keith joins him “for moral support,” but by the time Lance has written three pages, Keith is snoring softly beside him.)

 

 

Lance was 17 years old when he realized that spending time with Keith always felt like the world had stopped for just the two of them, even when it hadn’t.

He spent the next week avoiding Keith because he didn’t quite know how to tell him, or if he’d still have his best friend once he did. But Lance had never been very good at 1) having patience and 2) keeping secrets, so instead of fleeing the cafeteria at lunch time when he saw Keith heading towards him with an annoyed expression, Lance stopped the clock for everyone else and hurried forward.

“Before you say anything,” Lance blurted out before he’d even come to a full stop in front of Keith, “don’t, okay, I have something to say and I need to get it out so just, like, shh.”

Keith looked a little bit like he would’ve very much enjoyed punching Lance just then, but he stayed silent and made a gesture for Lance to continue.

“Sorry to—“ Lance waved a hand at the static scene around them, indicating the fact that he’d used his power during school hours when he’d promised not to “—but I can’t say it with everyone around doing stuff and being distracting, I just want to say it to you, right to you, and I want you to hear it and—and understand, okay, that I’m serious. And all right, I kind of like that you can’t just run off on me. Well, uh, I guess you could, but I could just, like, hold you hostage in the null zone bubble until you say something, but that’d be pretty awf—“

“Breathe, Lance,” Keith said, rolling his eyes. “Get to the point.”

“Right,” Lance said. “The point. The point is you’re the only person I ever wanted to tell about this. The point is you’re the only person I want to share this with. The point is you’re the only person I want to share _everything_ with. The point is that I stopped the world to pour my heart out to you.” The nerves suddenly got to him; _Warning: incoming babblefest_. “And I get it, if you don’t—if you’re not—I just wanted to say it, but I’m not expecting, you know—and it’s stupid and completely cliché but I’d really like to still be friends, if it’s not—“

Lance’s words dried up in his throat when Keith curled a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him forward. “You’re an idiot,” Keith said, and then he kissed him.

 

 

“Anyone else, like, completely shocked that we made it?” Hunk says, still struggling to get his tassel to stop falling in front of his face.

Lance raises his hand. “More shocked about you than me,” he says, “but yeah.”

Keith wears a vaguely pained expression. “I’m still in shock that you both got into the same college as me in the first place,” he says. “What happened to the standards around here?”

Without looking at him, Lance knocks Keith’s cap from his head. It’s a sweet revenge, especially knowing how carefully Keith had placed it on that morning while hogging the bathroom mirror.

A voice rings out telling them all to get in place. “Ahh, I forgot who I’m supposed to stand next to,” Hunk despairs. “Gotta go—see you after! Don’t fall!” And he hurries off into the crowd.

Lance turns to Keith, who’s glaring at him sourly. Lance’s grin makes a vague attempt at being apologetic. “Would it make you feel better if I did fall?”

“Only if I’m the one pushing you off the stage,” Keith grumbles.

Lance reaches out and adjusts Keith’s cap, brushing his hair back and tilting it just how Keith had liked it before. “There, perfectly perfect,” he says, cupping his hand against Keith’s cheek.

Everything stops.

“Lance . . . “ Keith sighs in exasperation, but there’s a hint of fondness hidden somewhere in there too.

“Just needed a moment,” Lance says.

Graduation day is a reminder that things are changing; they’ll have the summer together, and then it’s off to grad school on opposite sides of the state. It’ll be the first time since they met that Lance and Keith will be living further apart than a five-minute walk down the street. Lance tries to reason that it’ll probably be good for them in some ways. But right now, he just wants to be selfish and draw out the moments where they’re still right beside one another. He has the power to; might as well use it, right?

Keith moves in first, pressing his mouth to Lance’s. Their caps bump against each other and they laugh, a slight burst of breath before their lips slot against one another again, soft and fierce at once. Lance drinks it in, the fever heat and pillow softness of Keith’s mouth, the strong jaw moving under Lance’s fingertips. They part with a slight flush in their cheeks, and laugh again as they fix each other’s caps. Lance catches Keith’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together. This was really what he needed: a moment of stillness, of no words, just Lance and Keith. Keith smiles at him like he knows what he’s thinking, and Lance knows that he does, and he loves him for it.

“Ready?” Keith asks.

Lance grins. “’Course I am, babe. Superheroes are always ready for anything.”

And he starts the clock again, darting away before Keith can say anything—but he caught the beginning of that eye roll—and then they’re marching out to “Pomp and Circumstance” and Lance catches his mom’s eye and he’s not _crying_ , okay, there’s no reason for Keith to be smirking at him like that, and no one falls when they cross the stage to receive their diplomas but Hunk almost knocks one of the professors over when he goes in for a hug; hats get thrown, people Lance has never spoken to before are hugging him and telling him to keep in touch, his family is surrounding him and yelling their congratulations and ruffling his hair and he’s blind from the camera flash but he can’t stop smiling—

And when it’s all over, he returns to the quiet of his apartment with Keith, and in the crook of Keith’s neck and the small of Keith’s back and the touch of Keith’s fingers on his skin, Lance reads the reassurances: _Everything else may be changing, but this never will_.

A lot of his dreams didn’t quite work out, but Lance is pretty content with this one that did.

(He still thinks having kangaroo legs would be pretty awesome, though.)


End file.
